Secrets of a Good Boy
by ForeverMATT
Summary: This is what it takes to be normal. Well, almost normal. In a discriminating and judgmental society full of hate and drama, Mail shares his ideal methods to suffer as little as possible.
1. GYM

**Title:** Secrets of a Good Boy

**Summary:** This is what it takes to be normal. Well, almost normal. In a discriminating and judgmental society full of hate and drama, Mail shares his ideal methods to suffer as little as possible.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note:** Just writing a bit, hoping to get my mojo back.

...

* * *

><p>It's early in the school day, first period for the redhead who sits in the back of the class, never raising his hand but always knowing the answer. Slouched in his standardized chair behind the small and barely functional desk that stood unevenly on its legs, the redhead absentmindedly tapped at the tapered end of a pencil, watching the eraser-end rise and fall at his command.<p>

While the Literature teacher prattled on about something or another, the redhead ducked his head and tried to fade into the background and off the radar.

Still tapping his pencil for a slim chance at amusement, he dreaded the idea of being called upon. He hated being put in the spotlight.

And of course, his silent prayers of remaining almost imaginary was countered by his own clumsiness and the incredible force known as Fate.

First, he tapped his pencil just a little too firmly and it was propelled from his desk to the floor, causing enough of a clatter for his peers to turn in his direction. This is what he believed to be the triggering factor of this session of today's misery.

All eyes upon him, his insides clenched, nerves rattling and mind reeling as he leaned half way out of his seat and reached towards his pencil. He was just a couple inches shy of being able to grab it when suddenly, he heard it.

"Mail. Mail Jeevas. I believe we were discussing and taking notes on the The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. Now, what can you tell me about BARDOS?"

Hearing his real name used, the redhead winced and held his breath, unsure of what kind of answer to give. He wasn't stupid, he wasn't illiterate. He was well-versed on the subject due to genuine curiosity, but the term _bardo _or _bardos _was so general, it was hard to decide just what the teacher was asking from him.

His hesitation to answer was met with a snicker from his peers as one whispered "Mail is stupefied. He doesn't know! Such an idiot!"

And another said "I bet he cheats to get his good grades. Look at him; he looks so confused."

Other comments were made, some hushed and others said purposefully loud, but the redhead did his best to ignore them. Instead, he snatched his pencil, sat upright in his seat, took a deep breath, made direct eye contact with his teacher and said: "Bardo is popularly associated with Death, but it has a deeper meaning because the Buddha teaches us that what we have called Life and what we have called Death are inseparable when seen and understood clearly from a perspective of enlightenment. Both are part of Existence, and Existence is divided into four realities. Those four are: Life, Dying and Death, After-Death, and Rebirth. The Four Bardos are: Natural, Painful, Luminous, and Karmic. Those four are Life, Dying, Dharmata, and Becoming. And-"

Waving his hands in a halting jest, the teacher cleared his throat and interrupted the redhead's answer, saying: "That is enough, Mail. Stating that Bardos are associated with Death was good enough." The way the teacher spoke, it was almost condescending.

Mail- oh how the redhead loathed the name- sank back into his seat, embarrassment creeping up on him as his peers all jeered at his excessive response. Whatever confidence he thought he'd obtained, it was gone. He lowered his head and again began to fiddle with his pencil, hoping the class would end soon.

About halfway through Section 7 of the lesson, the bell rang and Mail was all too happy to grab his books and bolt from the room.

Taking slow and deep breaths to calm himself, he walked through the halls, clumsy and awkward with his teenage body and growing limbs that he'd yet to adjust to.

Next class was Biology, and he knew they'd be dissecting the fetal pig. Entering the class, he drew in the distinct scent of formaldehyde. Walking to the lab and standing at his own assigned station, he put on a pair of gloves and waited for further instruction from his teacher.

This teacher was always late for class, so it was no surprise when the tardy bell rang and the students were all standing around with nothing to do.

Some sat on desks and chatted up their friends. Others took out homework and traded or copied answers. A few of them joked and poked at the cold dead skin of the piglets they would soon be slicing open.

And Mail... just stood there, gloves on and eyes down. It's not that he didn't have friends, but... No, that was _exactly_ it. He had a timid nature and a very introverted personality, and something about him just willed away his would-be companions. But that didn't bother him, not really.

Still, he stood there, silent and observational, like an efficient piece of machinery. The thought made him smile because he loved anything mechanical and he himself was nothing if not efficient. His report card said as much, though his teachers never commented anything prideful.

But that was of little consequence to the redhead who waited as patiently as possible for the teacher who took so long to attend her own class. Growing bored, he began to count the number of times he blinked and combine it with the number of breaths he took, then the formed a ratio and compared that with other random numerical statistics he thought up.

Nearly twenty minutes late, the teacher bumbled in and shut the door behind her. Her gut was jolly but her face was saggy and stern; her cheeks hung over her chin like dog-ears, and her mouth moved like a bad latex prosthetic appliance. Still, she sat at her desk chair and took attendance before calling the class to attention. She held up a scalpel and explained the proper way to cut through the chest cavity of a fetal pic... after explaining just how similar it is to a human.

Students were either repulsed or excited, but Mail was simply curious. His own scalpel in hand, he did as told and was soon pinning the piglet open and locating the organs on a check-off sheet that had been provided.

That class went by smoothly without any complications, and towards the end, everyone cleaned up and washed their hands, though no amount of washing could rid them of the foul stench that lingered on them.

The stench of death and formaldehyde. A scent that Mail wasn't at all bothered by.

Next class, Algebra. Easy as Pi.

Next class- oh, Lunch. Not having lunch money, he skipped and went to the Computer Lab, opened a Poxy and signed into his favorite online game.

Next class, Phys Ed -better known as either Physical Education or Gym. He changed into his gym shirt and shorts and was supposed to climb the rope, like everyone else.

Standing in line, he waited his turn, trying not to appear stressed over the impending task. One by one, he watched as his classmates grabbed the rope, hoisted themselves up and climbed with relative ease, rang the bell at the top, and then slid down.

Sure enough, his own turn came and he placed a nervous hand on the coarse fibers of fraying rope, tightened his grip and then allowed his other hand to join the first. He kicked off the ground and held on for dear life, swinging his legs and trying hard to pull himself up. This however, only succeeded in causing the rope to jostle and sway. He managed to slide one hand up and then the other, but try as he may, his legs dangled uselessly and seconds later, his muscles gave out. He slid down and his hands burned as the rope passed through them.

"Mail," the gym teacher bellowed, "get back on the rope. Nobody leaves until Jeevas reaches the top!"

The other students groaned, annoyed and frustrated, all glaring daggers at the redheaded weakling.

Closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and shaking off the stinging sensation of his hands, Mail approached the rope and tried again. This time, he got a little further but met the same ending result.

He tried again.

And again.

Then, lowering his head, hands burning and still lightly holding the rope as his feet this time remained planted firmly on the floor, he admitted softly: "I can't do it."

Blowing his whistle, the teacher yelled "Due to the Jeevas-boy's incompetence and inability to climb a simple rope, I want everyone to do 20 laps around the gymnasium, now!" He blew the whistle again and everyone started running, except Mail whom just stood there, looking defeated and feeling ashamed. "Are you okay, Mail?" the teacher asked, a touch of concern in his voice. It was strange, coming from the usually harsh adult.

Still, Mail took comfort in the soft tone. He looked at the teacher and answered honestly, "It's just been a hard day, and I really tried to climb the rope, but I can't."

Nodding, the teacher said, "I understand. Go to the Locker Room to change, and we'll discuss what we can do before you fail this class."

Shrugging, Mail allowed his hands to slip from the rope and then he sauntered off towards the Locker Room. Entering, he slipped off his shirt and shorts, leaving him in his boxer-briefs before opening his locker and reclaiming his non-gym clothes.

That's when his teacher came in.

Mail felt eyes on him and shuddered, freezing in place just before he could slip his shirt on. "Something wrong?" he asked quietly, unsure of what else to say.

"I thought we were going to discuss how to improve your grade for Phys Ed."

"Alright," the redhead answered, feeling more calm. He sat on the bench, faced his teacher, and pulled his shirt on. "What can I do? Is there any paperwork? Or maybe I can-"

"For starters, Jeevas, you can take that shirt back off..."

...

* * *

><p><strong>To Be Continued<strong>


	2. DAD

**Title:** Secrets of a Good Boy

**Summary:** This is what it takes to be normal. Well, almost normal. In a discriminating and judgmental society full of hate and drama, Mail shares his ideal methods to suffer as little as possible.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note:** Just an update.

...

* * *

><p><em>"For starters, Jeevas, you can take that shirt back off."<em>

Those words caused something inside the redhead's gut to churn; he felt wary and sick as he took in his gym teacher's appearance, starting with the NIKE shoes, white socks pulled halfway up those thick trunk-like calves, knees wrapped in braces to nurse an old injury, shorts that were just a little too short for comfort as they cradled his free-balling self, then of course, a simple t-shirt beneath a windbreaker. Oh, and the whistle, silver and corded around the thick sausage-like neck... and that neck that lead to a large blocky meat-head. A former jock himself, this man was intimidating from every standpoint. His squinty eyes did little more than command attention, and the rest of his hulking mass was more than enough to enforce.

It was with a nervous breath that came the preliminary words of would-be denial from the redhead. "Mr. Ross, I don't think..." Mail began to mutter, resting his hands in his lap, drawing his knees together and scooting back as far as the bench would allow.

The teacher, 'Mr Ross' spoke next. "Jeevas, cooperate for ten minutes and you'll get a passing grade. I think that's more than fair, don't you?"

Mail said nothing at first, his heart starting to thump and his skin beginning to itch as if infested with parasites. "Wha-What you're implying is highly inappropriate."

"_Inappropriate?_ Big word, aren't you the scholar?" Mr Ross mocked. He paused and fixed a sneer onto his face, lips drawing back to reveal large gangly teeth. "Ten minutes. I won't hurt you."

Biting his lip, not sure how else to react, Mail blurted "This is a threat. Blackmail. I'll tell."

But his brawny teacher only chuckled. "Tell what? To who? I'm simply trying to help you improve your grade. Wouldn't your mommy and daddy be so proud for you to get a good grade?"

Biting his lip a little harder, teeth starting to rip into the soft tissue and the faintest hint of blood beginning to surface, Mail shook his head before whispering "My mom and dad are-"

"Dead," Ross finished for him. "I know, it's a sad story, isn't it? Why don't you sit in my lap and tell me all about it? Maybe I'll boost your grade if you cry... just a little."

Emotions all jumbled, the redhead clenched his hands into fists and got to his feet, eyes narrowed with anger. "Fuck... you..."

"Dirty words for such a conservative boy," Ross taunted, stepping back towards the door and locking it. "Now, let's try this again..."

...

School ended and Mail missed the bus, which meant that he had to walk. Eyes downcast and self respect reduced in scale, he sauntered down the sidewalk with an armful of books, glad that his homeward journey would be short.

...

Walking up the driveway, he was pleased to find that his step-mother's car was gone and his step-father's pedal-bike was present. That's usually how it was.

Home was small for a 2-story building, with faded green siding and an obnoxious tin roof that rattled angrily when it rained. Stepping up the stairs and onto the porch, he approached the door. Hesitantly he raised a hand and placed his hand on the knob, letting out a 'yip' and drawing back when a jolt of electricity ripped through his body. "Fuck." he whispered hoarsely looking around and spotting a bucket. Upon inspection, the bucket held two things: a note and a simple rubber glove. Skimming the note, he read:

_Electricity is on the fritz again. Don't touch any metal bare-handed.  
>-J<em>

Sighing, Mail retrieved the glove, slipped it on, then safely opened the door that had been rigged.

Juggling his books and discarding the glove before stepping inside, he had to be cautious, instantly noticing that several floorboards had been pried up and thick nasty nails were surfacing all over, baiting an unsuspecting foot.

His books found themselves dropped onto a four foot tall stack of damp newspapers as he began to weave his way through the catastrophe that had become his home.

Old crates and boxes and books here and there, many damp or moldy beyond repair. Stacks of papers, bills, receipts, and magazines. Toys and clothes still in boxes or with price tags. Vinyl records and the remains of what used to be a first-aid kit. The broken remains of fine china tableware... So many would-be treasures turned to junk... It all became as commonplace as any other furniture in the household.

Closing his eyes tightly and taking a deep breath, Mail called "Johnathan, whyyyy~?!" He began with the first name of his step father and his voice dragged on the last word, turning into an almost desperate cry and ending with a light sniffle.

Then, with a cantankerous clatter of metal and heavy bumbling footsteps, a robot-esque creature bounded from the stairwell in Mail's direction. Wearing makeshift armor and welding goggles, armed with a scraggly mop in one hand and a dust-buster in the other, the creature lumbered and stomped. Removing the goggles and dropping the his cleaning supplies, the creature revealed itself to be none other than Johnathan: a middle-aged man with a strong squared jaw, bushy greying mustache with sideburns and eyebrows to match, large blue eyes and an even larger grin. "Mail, you're home!" he chimed, his tone whimsical.

The redhead winced and looked down. "Yeah, long day at school. But I'm home. And as far as I know, I've got a passing grade in PE."

"Good," the man said offhandedly."Now, I want to show you my latest efforts in home-improvement!"

Forcing a smile, Mail feigned optimism in favor of following his step-father up the stairs and into the hall. Then... "Tah-daaah" his step father cheered, revealing what some might call _'just a door.'_

But with the way Mail's eyes it up, it wasn't just _any_ door. It was _his_ door. His own door that led to his own room that he retired to each and every night since his adoption, though the room never had a door before. And for Johnathan to allow him this privacy, it was a milestone like he'd never imagined.

"I-Is this for me?" Mail squeaked out, eyes almost wet from pent-up emotion. Upon seeing the bobble-headed nod and exuberant smile from Johnathan, he couldn't help springing toward the older man and wrapping him in a tight hug. After a long moment, Mail withdrew and stepped back with a questioning expression on his face, but no words of inquiry came.

Instead, his step-father looked at him in a way that seemed to answer any and all questions. Then, Johnathan pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to the redhead. "For you, my son. There is only one key, and it only works for your door. It's all yours."

With the sort of nervous energy most children get on holidays, Mail approached his door with the key in hand and slid it into the lock hole; turning it slowly, he listened to the soft rumble of tumblers as it unlocked. Drawing the key out and keeping it firmly in his grasp, he opened the door. It opened smoothly with nary a creak, and he stepped inside with a wide grin in place.

"This- This means a lot to me... _dad_," Mail said, voice full of awe as he turned back to his father-figure to add that last word.

The two shared a moment, the step father knowing that he'd genuinely made the child happy, and the child knowing that this was the first time he'd ever referred to the man as '_dad_.'

Another long moment seemed to pass, and the the air became stale and awkward.

Then, clearing his throat, the the elder man turned and declared "I'm going to tinker with the wiring some more, and then I'll order pizza." Another pause as the man scratched his head before adding: "On second thought, why don't I call for pizza, and _then_ mess with the wiring. And by the end of the week, I'll get to work on the fixing the floor..."

And then he was gone.

And Mail just stood in his doorway and surveyed his room. Somehow, despite everything else, he felt content. This place, this room... it was his home. He shut the door behind him and without locking the door, he slipped the key into his pocket.

Unlike the rest of the house, his room wasn't a shell that housed empty belongings that once might have meant something to someone; rather, his room was neat and tidy and purposeful. A bed with sheets and a pillow and a comforter. A box for his shoes, a closet and chest of drawers for his clothes. A small 12 inch tv and a SEGA Genesis with several games all in cases and neatly stacked. Lastly, there was a window with venetian blinds.

The setup was simple, but something as plain as this room made him feel normal, took away the shame that once filled him with grief and despair, helped him forget that he was once eccentric and unwanted. And while his new lifestyle was hardly normal, no one from the outside world had any reason to suspect that he was any different than they were.

Seating himself on his bed, Mail reached beneath the pillow and withdrew an old notebook with a faded and stained cover and several pages dog-eared. Flipping the book open and pulling a pen from the notebook's spiral, he began to write...

_Hey, Matt; it's me again.  
>I had a long day at school. My classes were mostly fine, but in gym, Mr Ross made me uncomfortable. I couldn't climb the rope, and he said I would likely fail. Unless... I'd rather not say. In the locker room, he asked me to take my shirt off. I didn't want to, but for me, failure is not an option.<br>After a bit of internal conflict, I did it. I took my shirt off. He kept looking at me and making weird faces, then he snapped a couple pictures and told me that he'd give me a C, which is a lot better than an F.  
>And that was it. He didn't rape me, which is honestly where I thought he was heading with the way he was acting. He didn't even make me pose or do any of that weird shit child pornographers usually do.<br>I'm just glad for the C, though I was a little ashamed to sit there and let him photograph me. It was uncomfortable, and I don't like taking the easy way out of things; it feels like cheating. I wish I could have just climbed the stupid rope.  
>On a brighter note, I don't have any homework.<br>Oh, and I called my step-father 'dad' for the first time. (I usually just call him Johnathan.) He got me a door that locks. It's cool. It kinda makes me feel like I'm in control of something, like this room is my own special and personal place, like I can just shut everything else out whenever I want. Also 'dad' (I kinda like that word: dad. Makes me feel normal) -Anyways, dad is ordering pizza!  
>I can't wait. Now... just gotta wait for my step-mother to get home.<br>I'm dreading that.  
>Then again, a lot of times, she doesn't come home at all, so it's not really a problem.<br>I can just hang out with dad (I still love saying that; I can't believe I've waited this long to call him dad). I can help him with his 'renovations' and 'home improvement.' LOL Let's be serious, he's not a genius and he doesn't know what he's doing, but he's a pretty nice guy, and he's always there when I need him.  
>I guess that's all there is to say. I'm gonna get pizza.<em>

...


	3. PIZZA

**Title:** Secrets of a Good Boy

**Summary:** This is what it takes to be normal. Well, almost normal. In a discriminating and judgmental society full of hate and drama, Mail shares his ideal methods to suffer as little as possible.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note:** Another update. Sorry for it being so short. I'm trying to write, but I've lost my passion for doing so.

...

* * *

><p>Pizza came. Pepperoni and cheese, a classic. Several boxes of 'classic,' which Mail and Johnathan shared while listening to their battery-powered radio that mostly blared static.<p>

"Save a box for Johanna," Johnathan said, and Mail gave him a look before averting his gaze.

Johanna was the name of his step-mother, but she was hardly ever around, always busy with the higher class she insisted on congregating with. And Mail was content with her absence.

While Johnathan couldn't cook, didn't clean, and didn't care for anything that wasn't already occupying his mind, he was kind and he was always there when his step-son came home.

Johnathan and Mail weren't close, but it always seemed like they were getting closer. As the radio played the two made small talk and exchanged smiles and jokes and laughter. And it didn't matter that the foundation of their home was falling apart, that Mail had problems at school, or that nothing about anything either of them new was considerably normal.

All that mattered was two people with a strengthening familial bond and the race towards the next box of pizza.

"Got it!" Mail chimed, snatching a slice and biting into it, cheese stringing between his teeth and down his chin as he grinned in triumph.

Between the two of them, they polished off four boxes and found themselves to be coated in sauce and grease.

"We should get cleaned up before bed. We have school tomorrow, young man," Johnathan said.

Mail quirked a brow as he wiped his hands on his pantlegs. "_We_? Daaad, you don't have school."

"Don't I?"

Mail rolled his eyes but said nothing, using his sleeve to wipe his mouth. Then "I ate too much," he grumbled, laying a hand to his stomach as if to nurse the swelling. "Ugh, I'll be back," and with those words, he got up and made his way to the bathroom.

Once there, he shut and locked the door and set to work. He took a deep breath and pulled his shirt off, tossing it aside and heading towards the sink. He turned the water on and turned to the toilet, lifting the lid and then kneeling beside it.

Closing his eyes, he shoved two fingers into his mouth and pressed them back as far as he could, wiggling them until his gag reflex was triggered.

Then... magic.

Mouthful by mouthful, he began to vomit and purge until his throat was raw. Until his stomach felt empty. Until he felt thinner. Until he felt better.

After gorging and indulging in such a large and unhealthy amount of food-intake, it seemed only logical for the redhead to unswallow.

It took minutes but it felt longer, and he could only hope that the sound of running water would drown own the sound of him heaving into the porcelain bowl. After all, he had enough problems to deal with, without his weight being one of them.

Decidedly finished and almost shaking from the act that had become almost ritualistic, he got up and flushed. He took a wad of toilet paper, wiped the rim and flushed that as well. Then went to the sink, washed his hands and looked into the mirror.

Somehow, he detested what he saw. The pale freckled skin and the face that just wasn't as thin as he wanted. He turned this way and that, looking from different angles. He tried sucking in his cheeks or squaring his jaw. Nothing seemed to improve how he looked. Then, he looked over the rest of his body and lowered his head in shame.

Returning his gaze to the mirror, he looked at the dark circles under his eyes that watered from his act of purging. He looked at his chin that was still wet. Then he splashed some water on his face and finally turned the water off.

A deep well of regret seemed to fill the pit of his stomach, but he just took a deep breath and forced what he hoped to be a reassuring smile. Then he began to strip. Once nude, he turned to the shower.

The day was almost over, and maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be better.

...

_Hey, Matt... It's me again.  
>I know nothing is accomplished by writing to you, telling you all these things. But I can't tell anyone else, and it's hard to keep it to myself.<br>I just got out of the shower, and I'm going to bed soon, but... I want you to know that... I miss you.  
>I've called Johnathan dad several times, and it feels great. It makes me feel... normal, like all the other kids who have dads. But I don't want you to think that I've forgotten about you. You're my real dad, and you'll always be that.<br>I'm sorry you're gone.  
>I'm sorry I'm not with you.<br>But I made a promise. I promised to keep going, and to write to you every day. I'm still doing that. I'm not happy, but sometimes, I'm pretty damn close.  
>Hope you're okay, wherever you are.<br>Love you._

**...**

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the out of place Journal at the end. I wanted to explain why Mail addresses his journals to Matt. In this fic, Matt is the name of Mail's biological father. Also, it hints that Mail might have survivor's guilt. I hope to touch up on that later./**


	4. HALL PASS

**Title:** Secrets of a Good Boy

**Summary:** This is what it takes to be normal. Well, almost normal. In a discriminating and judgmental society full of hate and drama, Mail shares his ideal methods to suffer as little as possible.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own DN.

**Author's Note:** Another update. I know it's short. Just expect my updates to be short until my zest for writing returns.

...

* * *

><p>School. Of course. A playground for bullies and preppies, and a prison yard for those who were just a bit... different.<p>

Mail wasn't like the pretty girls who played with their hair, chewed gum in class, and giggled all the time. And Mail wasn't like the boys who excelled in sports and had a 2-digit IQ. Mail, with his triple-digit IQ and his small frame, fell into the Miscellaneous category that very well could be labeled _Potential Victims_.

He wasn't a target of stereotypical bullying. He wasn't pushed around or laughed at. But... he was segregated in some cruel and unjustified ways.

If he entered a classroom that did not assign seats, once he sat down other students would seat themselves as far away from him as possible. If he walked down a hall and heard people talking, they'd hush and watch him pass from the corners of their eyes before continuing. If he entered a lavatory, others would exit and make sure to bump him on the way out.

This treatment didn't bother the redhead as much as it would most students. In fact, he almost preferred it. Not having friends was almost the same as not having enemies... right?

He never dwelled on the matter for long, always quick to occupy his mind with other matters that were far more trivial. Like, what level of Tetris he was on, or what World was next for Mario on his Gameboy. Or, hell, like maybe his step-mother Johanna would get him a Gameboy Colour for his birthday...

A rare but very genuine smile found its way among the gamer's lips as he sat in class with his cheek lazily pressed against his palm. The teacher rattled off something or another, and his peers either took notes or slacked off. But, for once, Mail found himself content. His stomach gurgled, reminding him of his lack of breakfast, and a yawn escaped him, reminding him that he hadn't slept too well the night before, or any night in the past week or so, but he couldn't be bothered with dismal feelings, too wrapped up in his own thoughts as the clock ticked away.

Until the bell rang.

Then, with a sigh, he got up and gathered his things, paying no mind to his fellow students as they filed out and he took his time, working at leisure to organize and stack his books and notebooks. Finally ready, he began to head out, only to be stopped when the teacher called "Jeevas, wait."

Wincing at the name he'd been called, he halted in his tracks, shoulders tense and eyes shut tightly. "Yeah?" he answered quietly, a sick feeling in his gut.

"I want to discuss your last assignment."

Groaning, Mail turned on heel and dramatically staggered over to his teacher's desk. "Yeah?" He responded; the word seemed to be his go-to response.

"You turned it in late, Jeevas."

"Wha? No, I didn't," he pleaded, a confused look twisting his face into something from a Lifetime movie. "I know I didn't. I always do my work, and it's always on time. My last report was on _The Wisdom that Realizes Egolessness_." Dumping his books onto a nearby desk, he turned a glare on his teacher. "You and I both know that I'm one of your top students. I'm never absent, and my grades are good. So what do you want from me? And fuck, could you be quick about it? I don't want to be tardy for my next class."

"Jeevas, watch your mouth or I'll see you in detention," the teacher said sternly, face carved into a look of disdain. "The assignment you turned in late was the one on _The Death of the Poisons_. It was two days late. Also, I was asked to tell you that your father called-"

"Johnathan? What'd he want," Mail interrupted curiously, a hint of worry and curiosity in his tone and body language as his posture erected and his toes curled in his shoes, his feet turning to point inwards at 45 degree angles.

"No," the teacher said tersely. "Jeevas Sr. called."

Mail's eyes widened and his breath caught. His shoulders slumped and his head fell forward. "You-You're lying," he said softly. "Johnathan is my dad now. Johnathan Carpenter."

"Jeevas, a Mr. Matt Jeevas called the school yesterday at 4:45, inquiring about you. For legal reasons, we were unable to tell him anything of value."

"You're lying," Mail shouted, enraged as he reached forward and knocked a tray of papers off his teacher's desk. Tears flecked the eyes that usually showed disinterest, and a terrible hatred filled his core as he turned and attacked his own stack of books as well, knocking them off the neighboring desk and stomping on the scattered mess for good measure. Panting and huffing, face red, he avoided his teacher's stare as he said with a careful tone: "I'm not feeling well. Can I have a hall pass so I can go see the nurse?"

Having never seen this student in such an emotional state, the teacher said not a word, wrote up a hall pass and handed it to the redhead.

Taking the pass and not even bothering to collect his things, Mail left the room.

...

_Hey, Matt... It's me again.  
>Funny thing happened at school today. Teacher says that you called. I know it's a lie, but it's funny, huh?<br>I couldn't laugh though. Sorry. I bet you'd have laughed.  
>I remember you and mom so well- okay, I remember YOU so well. Not so much mom.<br>You two weren't the greatest parents.  
>...but that didn't stop you from trying.<br>More than anything, I remember how you laughed. All the time, like everything was funny. Mom always yelled, but you'd laugh it off.  
>You were so cool.<br>I remember that you sat there in front of the tv, with me beside you, and you would always smile. You were always so happy, as if nothing was ever wrong. Maybe nothing was wrong, but it sure felt wrong.  
>The other kids in the neighborhood were never hungry, but I always was. And my clothes didn't fit. I remember my clothes being dirty. I remember going weeks without a bath, without brushing my teeth or combing my hair. I remember asking you if we were dirty.<br>And, like with everything else, you laughed it off, and then you stole my juice box.  
>I used to wonder what was so funny, that it kept you laughing long after it should have stopped being funny.<br>Was it a joke? Were you just that insanely happy? Were you high?  
>I got made fun of, y'know.<br>First day of school, and Linda dumped water on my head and told me to wash my hair. Nate stared at me for a long time before telling me that there was soap in the bathroom.  
>Back then... I had to ask what soap was.<br>And everybody laughed. Just like you. I tried to laugh with them. It was a nervous and confused sort of chuckle, but it just made them laugh more.  
>They laughed, and I started to cry. The teacher walked over to me, and I remember holding my arms out, wanting a hug. But all I got was a pat on the head, and the teacher said I could call home if I wanted.<br>...back then, I didn't know how to use a phone. Didn't know the phone number. So I cried harder. I cried so much my face hurt.  
>That is probably the second worst day of my life.<br>We were dirt-poor, literally, but it wasn't all bad.  
>You took me to the zoo. You took me to Mc Donalds. You played with me all the time, and you told the best bedtime stories about Little Red Robin Hood...<br>I loved you. I wanted to be just like you.  
>I remember putting my small hand next to your big hand, and I used to want my hands to be that big. You were always thin- thinner than mommy, and I thought it was neat the way your bones stuck out. I wanted to look just like you, to laugh like you... I'd even take your name if I could.<br>Matt Jeevas, it sounds so much better than Mail-Adopted Orphan-Carpenter. I still use your last name, at least.  
>-I've had a lot of bad days, but the first worst day of my life... is the day I came home from school- I was in the third grade- and found you and mommy on the floor, unmoving. I remember specifically that mommy had a lot of blood on her. I didn't know what was going on or what to do. So I went to the fridge and got a juice box. And I sat on the couch in front of the tv. And I waited.<br>I don't know what I was waiting for, or for how long, but an old man came in and told me to come with him. He said he'd make everything better.  
>Not knowing what else to do, I followed.<br>Before I knew it, I was in a 'Children's Home,' and everyone was telling me that you and mom had overdosed. But I knew better. I'd seen all that blood, and I'd taken note of how the hinges were busted on the front door...  
>-I don't want to write about this anymore. It hurts. Just when I was getting comfortable with Johnathan, this shit has to happen. It's not fair.<em>


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